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072. Space


Across the bus stop, Marceline strums her glossy, bright red guitar, mumbling out rumbling, low notes.

She called her Bonnibel once, exhaling a ton of cigarette smoke, nuzzling their heads together under the roof, stroking Bonnie's pale pink skin exposed from the worn knee-holes in her jeans.

They kissed for the first time during a sleepover, when her aunt Lolly went downstairs to read.

Bonnie remembers every second, every following kiss and sensation, how Marceline's body felt against her palms — her small, firm breasts, her toned abs. How soaked her underwear got when Bonnie rubbed her thumb over the damp-sticky material, reveling in how close her girlfriend was.

Marceline treated her like glass sometimes. Then sometimes she did cruelly, dismissing Bonnie's text messages or endangering them with her pranks.

She couldn't take it anymore — it was over.

Bonnie cried and raged the whole night after they split up, throwing her rose lemonade bottle against the wall, shattering it to a million pieces.

She wore Marceline's old, rocker band tee-shirt as pajamas for a whole week, clenching the hem up to her nose and breathing her in — nicotine, cherry cola, inexpensive hair gel, and cocoa butter.

More than anything, Bonnie wanted her to call, to show up at her place. To kiss her ferociously and grab her close with those bloody red-polished fingernails, until Bonnie's own toes tingle, until she melted into a pile of pink, glorious mess—

"Hey, HEY!"

It's a faintly recognizable shout. Bonnie jerks away, tripping onto the sidewalk as a man with a yellow hat and a matching faded yellow, torn shirt snatches onto her wrist violently, forcing her up.

He goes flying sideways, when Marceline appears over his shoulder. She bashes her guitar against the side of his skull. It's not hard enough to break her instrument, but he jumps onto the road, holding his bleeding head and sprinting.

"HEY, YEAH!" Marceline screams after him, waving a fist in the air. "You better run!"

Bonnie stares at nothing in particular, blinking dazedly. A pure and deepening shock keeps her from a clear mind until she sees the other girl kneeling down, touching Bonnie's shoulders.

Maybe it's the adrenaline and other emotions warping her thoughts, but Marceline's skin looks sallow. Nearly a grey color. Her mouth caked with a visibly thick layer of her favorite black-moon lipstain. She's even got an undercut ponytail now.

"Did he hurt you…?"

At the obviously worried tone in Marceline's voice, Bonnie gathers up her wits, shaking her head.

"N-No…" she answers. "I didn't even see him."

Marceline snorts in disbelief, gazing at the spilled, colorful gumdrops around Bonnie's hands pressed with all her weight to the concrete. "Oh my glob… you still eat these things, Bon?"

A rosy-red flush grips her features. "And you're still getting into trouble wherever you go," Bonnie mumbles, accepting the help back onto her feet.

"You're welcome by the way…"

Bonnie's naked, chapped lips flatten, when the other girl sends her a wounded and bummed look.

She slips Marceline's fingers into hers, tilting her head with an apologetic, softened stare, until Marceline flushes too, giggling and leaning in.

They can't go back to the start of a relationship — but maybe they can take time to start over.

Bonnie hides Marcy's rock-band shirt. For now.